


Fearless

by koshitsu_kamira



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Homophobia, M/M, Rimming, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4822433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koshitsu_kamira/pseuds/koshitsu_kamira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fortune favours the bold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fearless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yuraxchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuraxchan/gifts).



> **Title:** Fearless  
>  **Author:** koshitsu_kamira  
>  **Pairing:** Baekhyun/Kai; Baekhyun/Taeyeon, Kai/Taemin  
>  **Word Count:** 15 718  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Warning(s, if any):** homophobia, flashbacks, time skips  
>  **Summary:** Fortune favours the bold.  
>  **Author’s Note:** Dedicated to the lovely Camille, my boo who prompted me to write KaiBaek, the muse of this story. A giant shout out for Berry , the best kind of company, generous enough to put up with my random babbling, teasing and sudden plotting, always curious about my ideas. Thank you all. ♥

The first floor dance studio, situated at the back of the SM Headquarter, right beside the emergency staircase leading to the secondary parking lot, was curiously deserted, the interior spotless, showing no signs of strenuous activities that morning. Baekhyun, despite realizing that he was obviously on the wrong track again, ventured further into the room, checking whether pillows were displaced on the sofa, or if water droplets still clung to the transparent walls of the shower cabin. Unfortunately, the washroom smelled strongly like pine scented detergents, the decorative cushions were fluffed up, the throw cover was smoothened out, and the floor was clear of the rubber marks they had left behind yesterday night. Even the glass panes constituting the entrance door were gleaming haughtily in the subtly flickering neon light, perfectly fingerprint free, irking him, aggravating his pride - he missed by a mile once more. It was a case of  overestimating his observational skills, betting on his admittedly faulty perception, and placing unfounded confidence in wild assumptions - he should have learnt his lessons already from the previous encounters. Acting happy-go-lucky wouldn’t get him anywhere in the current, palpably bleak circumstances, nor maintaining the same self-assured, half-serious attitude he had represented ever since the early days; a radical change in tactics came to be inevitable.

He was traipsing down the steps while fiddling with his phone, launching a messenger application to monitor schedule revisions, take a glance at unread texts and send due replies, when the exit hatch above him slammed open, revealing a slender figure clad in grey hoodies, white cotton shirt, and black sweatpants, rapidly descending the stairs, swiftly bypassing him, leaving only a trail of citrus with underlying green tea and bergamot notes lingering in the air. The unmistakable signature of ck one by Calvin Klein registered suddenly to his lethargic senses, prompting Baekhyun to chase after the fleeing man, who had disappeared at the corner just a second later, dive down at a breakneck speed, scarcely in time to hurriedly grab his forearm, and using it as one would a lever, turn the other person around. The dull thud of a back meeting the bulky steel entryway echoed hollowly in the empty stairwell, faint gasps and muted pants rang in Baekhyun’s ear when he moved closer, until he stood between a pair of white sneakers, his chest melded against a toned upper body, and the crown of his head caressed an elegantly sculpted jawline. At near proximity the musk of the soap was prominent, a heady seduction to fondle and pet smooth skin, scatter kisses on a slim neck, whisper sensual promises above the living beat of a treasured heart; instead he embraced tightly the unmoving form, perched on his tiptoes to press his lips softly on the protruding Adam’s apple, then laid his cheek to the throat, so that he was able to feel the reassuring thrum of the carotid artery. All Baekhyun craved was a small reward for keeping his distance, staying despondently in the shadows or making himself scarce in the past seven days, a modest gift in exchange of his pain and swallowed tears, anodyne to pacify his troubled spirit - he was granted with a strong arm winding around his waist, an infinitely gentle hand combing through his hair and stroking his nape. He slowly counted backwards starting from one hundred, impishly including number zero too, as he savoured being held with affection, basking in the effervescent warmth he was parched for - still, turning away, shaking off the heat of the kind touches, letting the cold air replace the glow they had generated together wrecked him systematically from inside out, causing the world dim shades darker before his eyes.

“Thank you, Jongin.” he murmured tentatively, gaze kept stiffly on his clutched hands, desperately keeping himself from pleading or reaching out anew, an action which gained him a light tap on his nose, a ghost of a wry smile, a parting of ‘take care’, exhaust fumes and ozone blasting into his face. He blamed the stinging eyes, the gradual reddening around brown irises, the heaving wheezes on the noxious cocktail of soot, nitrogen oxides and carbon monoxide adhering to the surface of his pupils, diffusing in his lungs, disregarding the quiet suffocation of a love non-reciprocal, condemning the aches and bleeding from wounds unseen.

100.

He received the call at the crack of dawn, an open-ended invitation to waste time dallying around in temporarily emptied offices, the teasing undertone a suggestion of hedonism and debauchery, a familiar tune, a commonplace draw, a concept overused, so he hanged up abruptly before properly ending the conversation. In lieu, Baekhyun chose the lesser evil of roaming the company corridors, dropping in on practising colleagues, nosing around the lyricists and composers, and exploiting the excellent internet connection in order to play League of Legends for hours on end. Early afternoon found him idly lounging on the boring grey, but aesthetically pleasing carpet of a sequestered recording room, singing along boisterously to a shuffle playlist, daydreaming about a stadium full of starlight, riotous cheers, and blinding limelight, the surrounding reality dissipating bit by bit.

The snippets of sour candy forming letter ‘X’ effectively blocked the upcoming lines, Rip Rolls cutting off the notes, edition Rainbow Reaction, identified Baekhyun having tongued the sticky confectionery, after he had roused from his short lived bewilderment, utilising his phone camera to survey the damage and take a close-up, evidence of the tomfoolery. He browsed the accumulated notifications afterwards, spotting the Snapchat symbol amidst; thumbing on the ghost icon revealed a picture displaying a sealed packet of the jelly treat, the same sweet sitting nonchalantly on his lips, interrupting his vocal session. Before tracking down the culprit next door, he updated his Instagram account with the quirky photo, doctored a filter and a number of colour specifications until he was satisfied, then typed some perky sentences interspersed by hashtags to supplement the overall theme preceding the final upload. The post became live in a moment, likes, comments pouring in, notching up the counter, its peculiar spell compelling him to read a couple of compliments and endearments, fingers itching to answer, riposte, only to withdraw in a distressed manner, having recalled unpleasant memories, a cold shiver creeping up on his back, sweat dampening his temples, the tangy flavour in his mouth nauseating. Hastily, he pocketed the gadget, impulsively climbed to his feet, almost falling over a swivel chair in the process, floundered and wobbled out to the hall, practically squashing his unsuspecting girlfriend against the opposite wall, who had been waiting since half an hour ago, the colourful parcel still clasped in her bony fist.

“Well, nice to see you too,” Taeyeon exclaimed breathily, mild shock painted on her delicate features, a nonplussed giggle escaping her, when he flusteredly pecked her lips, the raspberry hued lip balm leaving a fine rosy sheen on his mouth. “I’m sneaky for sure, but I don’t think my prank warrants this level of confusion. Did anything particular happen?” she questioned, looking concerned all of a sudden, studying his expression apprehensively, pale eyebrows furrowing minutely with worry.

"I guess, I've gotten up awfully quick, and all the blood rushing to my head is making me woozy," Baekhyun explained hurriedly, laughing self-deprecatingly to dissolve the mounting tension between them, lighten the wired atmosphere, his arms lifting to cradle her tenderly. She kept her inquiring stare fixed on his sheepish gaze as a defeated sigh had eluded her strenuous control, giving in to his clumsy try at persuasion, burrowing further into his yielding embrace, overlooking the small piece of untruth in exchange for a moment of tranquility. “What are we doing today?” he asked tentatively, fiddling absentmindedly with her braid, feeling silky blonde hair slipping out of his loose grasp, the plait skidding along his knuckles in a satin-like whisper.

“You can come with me to the assembling of Lion Heart, seeing that we can’t snack together anymore,” pouted Taeyeon, indicating contained disappointment and irritation regarding how their plans had turned out, her glare pointed, settling on exasperation having noticed the time on her wristwatch. She wordlessly linked her slight fingers with his, pulling him towards the main studio promptly, her pace brisk and unforgiving, the lightweight material of her romper flaring, gliding over the cool breeze her speed induced, sky blue wisps drifting along the creamy peaches of her thighs, the contrast stunning, subtly intoxicating. He followed her lead obediently, matching his longer stride to her smaller, dainty pace, hindered by the embellished pair of sandals on her feet, the metallic parts clinking each steps, a chiming melody to accompany their businesslike march, except for their twined hands denoting their intimate relationship. The images where he had held another warm palm between his skinny ones emerged in front of him, the memory of the path he had walked stirring to life, a flashback of drowsy yawns, a mane of glossy pink and sharp shoulder blades jutting out of gilded skin bleeding into his present, outshining the allegedly merry instant he was existing within. He could confess to himself truthfully, that he avidly coveted all those golden moments, his greed to possess, to experience growing to be an awful creature of want and desire which was cursed with a ghastly, unquenchable hunger for the unattainable, a despicable thing indeed, meant to be buried deeply. Yet he kept the recaptured scenes by the most vulnerable place in his soul, somewhere he could be readily bruised and burned, crushed by kindness and compassion - he seized the impression painted in greens, yellows and purples, and let it bloom to sublime completion, an extraordinary flower on the expanse of his eyelids.

Baekhyun stood behind him, supporting his back, assisting to keep his posture straight, satisfactory enough to learn proper breathing technique, resting his cautious hold on a flat belly, occasionally patting the tense muscles, when Jongin missed an intake or ran out of air, his heaving gulp rippling over his torso, voice wavering precariously. Cerise embarrassment crawled upon his collar, he hunched imperceptibly in apologetic shame, nonetheless persisting to finish the session, salvaging his performance, invested minutes and tireless labor, an endearing portrait of insistence, resolute determination. Baekhyun gifted him a sunny smile, offering handy advices, pointing out mistakes and tiny errors, demonstrating the correct method, but also made sure to shower him in honest compliments, commending on his will to improve and polish his flourishing abilities, humorously proclaiming his fears of being replaced. He was definitely annoying or aggravating at worst having behaved akin to a rabid fangirl, a frenzied admire, however, seeing Jongin breaking out an amused chuckle, the clouds of chagrin and discomfiture erased from his horizon, replaced by hilarity, cheer, exclusively the consequences of Baekhyun’s foolish actions, emboldened him to strive more vigorously, zealously toward his happiness, wellbeing. The assortment of gummy bears, Jongin’s favourites, in his back pocket was simply a minor detail in a larger scheme of retaining the luminous beam, conserving the childlike glee radiating off the delighted gestures sequential to a job excellently done, a move flawlessly executed - Baekhyun might be jaded, scoring higher on the Mach Scale than necessary, his shrewd personality better suited for the turbulent waters of business, the entertainment world of sequins, smeared eyeliner, and kindergarten variety gossips a wondrous playground from his perspective, yet he proved to be a sentimental fool in the face of sincere generosity freely given. He was a halfwit, a bumbling imbecile, when an overjoyed Jongin insisted on sharing the tidbits with him, feeding him scrumptious cubs, snickering at prank videos playing on his phone screen, suggesting him potential victims - “Would Joonmyun hyung fall for it?” - their ankles intertwined, arms connected, breathing matched, and Baekhyun approached his downfall inch by inch.

85.

He was strolling the teeming roads of Shibuya district, crossing Omotesandō, perusing the goods featured, frowning at the identical articles - bags, trousers, shirts, snapbacks - promoted in differing windows, his formerly upbeat mood ruined, stomach growling insistently, the creeping hunger bringing about his cranky, grouchy self, the fact that Jongin was missing unhelpful in the process of regaining a cooler temperament. Beside him, Yixing was seeking the shortest route to Komazawa Dōri on Google Maps, looking up their selected restaurant, reading reviews and dish recommendations, occasionally attempting to offer comfort by repeating “He’s a capable, fully grown man.” or “The managers would contact us, if Jongin had an accident.” which progressively exacerbated his volatile disposition. He ardently wished the younger man would be considerate of the group’s mental state, forgoing accustomed texting habits to inspect their chat more frequently than what the standard six hour cycle indicated, alternatively calling ahead of fleeing their company, on an off chance, dropping a word to reassure them, calm his rapid pulse ringing on his eardrums. Baekhyun ignored the vein throbbing by his temple, obstinately scrolling down his feed, adding a private conservation on KakaoTalk, and fired off increasingly terse sentences addressed to Jongin, filling the window with yellow speech bubbles marked as unread, a sight eliciting a fatigued groan out of his chest, neck dipping backward in sheer annoyance. Yixing’s answering grin was of understanding, although indicating mirthfulness, jolly sparkles hovering in his distinctly alert stare, betraying the concern he personally felt, gentling Baekhyun’s fretful restlessness, the antsy bustle he blatantly exhibited during Jongin’s brief absence.

Impatience got to him by degrees, he caught himself absently scanning news headlines, weather forecasts, searching for emergency numbers and phrases used in events of crisis, imminent danger, then abruptly switched to social media contents, covering blogs, fancafes, their official site, almost forgetting Instagram, having deleted the app roughly a year ago, only reinstalling the program for a couple of months. Anxiety and foreboding were crowding him whenever he clicked on the miniature camera sign, constantly expecting the worst, the hail of spiteful comments, malicious letters consisting of swearwords, the general hate spawned by netizens, in truth, nobody else than bored teenagers cooped up in their cramped bedroom of broken dreams, crushed spirit, and the rare middle aged clerks channeling their pent up aggression, suppressed venom via death threats, foul obscenities, all courteous citizens by daylight. Thankfully, nowadays he was bearing the blessings, the favour of the Korean public once more, gathering support regularly, gratefully shouldering the responsibilities coming with the laud, keeping a iron hold on his image: a bright, talented young adult who was trustworthy and dependable, a great role model parents deemed safe, worthy of the admiration, the ambition of smart, promising youngsters. His vigilance was fruitful so far, notably regarding their team, ultimately relieved of the PR department’s perpetual lament and grievance, the disapproval, impending blame finding new targets, fresh victims to prey upon in the name of damage control, regaining the goodwill of SM Entertainment, restoring shareholder faith, market value in the long term at optimal benefit-cost ratio.

He had been huddling in the sparse nook of their living room, the shelves housing the sound system sheltering him from pitying looks, admonishing grimaces or commiserative questions, leaving him forlorn to fight back contrite tears, battle lonesome the sobs trying to crack his crumbling discipline, weaken his decaying resolve as the dampened tissues piled up at his bare toes, the uncapped bottle of water close to empty standing by his side. The chime of the security code having been input briefly distracted his confounded immersion, plates clinking, water boiling in the steel kettle, plastic foil crinkling, a spoon hitting against the ceramic mug’s bottom, the noises of a person languidly puttering in their kitchen unwittingly eased the heavy solitude blanketing his present state. Soon, fluffy slippers appeared in his periphery, cornflower blue terry cloth, dove grey cotton, and navy polar fleece, a metal tray loaded with cream puffs and two steaming mugs of fragrant citron tea held by sleepy Jongin, wild bedhead constrained by a patterned snapback, cheeks flushed from the brisk walk to and fro the vendor two blocks away, the smile on his face good-natured, devoid of dissatisfaction, a comforting sight. He cautiously set the platter on the ground, gesturing Baekhyun to take one of the served drinks, broke a pastry in half, the rich custard spilling over the golden brown cake, held it to his mouth till he reluctantly had a bite, vanilla exploding on his tastebuds, sugar cloying the back of his throat, the sweetness mollifying the knot deep in his belly, allaying the shivers jostling him, the jolt of honey and the yuzu fruit’s zing washing away the clinging tension from the meeting summoned to assess the situation, all involved parties attending the discussion. Eventually Baekhyun regained his usual laid-back composure by the time he drained the red polka dotted Mickey Mouse mug, and emptied the dish of half dozen buns, the used napkins having been cleared away courtesy of an attentive Jongin, vigilantly observing his behaviour, and periodically sending memos to Joonmyun, who stayed at the Cheongdam-dong headquarters in order to hammer out legal details, issue formal complaints against the watchdog unit overseeing media outlet activity - knowing his tenacious nature he wouldn’t leave until he witnessed the reprimands delivered by the higher-ups.

“Let me borrow your phone, hyung,” requested Jongin distraughtly, glowering at the alarm which indicated his dead battery, whispering his thanks silently, the grooves creasing his brows expanding seconds later, a streak of blue escaping his lips, the instant he saw hate comments popping up on the lock screen, the various notifications exceeding two hundred and counting. An unbroken hush enveloped the spacious apartment as Baekhyun mutely took in the nimble fashion Jongin’s fingers moved, sure swipes, brisk taps, a stroke downgrade, then the progress meter flashing green once, introducing a void amidst the motley multitude of icons, the alerts cleanly vanishing, traceless. He wished to scream, yell in displeasure for the offense on his dignity, the belittling his self-respect endured in the face of reckless insolence, flippant audacity, instead he broke down, a house of cards in a storm, shedding upset tears, his equilibrium rattled, kneeling on the hardwood floor, achieving no relief, Jongin listening passively in the corner, waiting for the worst to pass, the panic to subside.

“No one is holding you responsible, you know?” he muttered consolingly, Baekhyun having nestled in his snug embrace, nose a ruddy coral, mouth slightly parted, wet sniffles somewhat audible, his body prone, yielding, the surroundings seeming surreal, hazy, blurring at the edges, cool touches, the aloe vera wet wipes reducing the swelling about his eyes that Jongin wielded to tidy up the concealer, foundation and powder congealed on his face. “You will have to lay low for a couple months or up to the next comeback season, no big deal,” he went on, dabbing mint scented ointment on the puffiness, laying an iced gel mask over the attended area, movements unhurried, leery of startling Baekhyun, diligently guarding his reprieve, frozen in his hunched position, neck growing stiff, gradually falling asleep, yet his upholded shelter of bones and muscles remaining intact. They slumbered untroubled, undetected by returning members - a sweaty Minseok having finished his workout routine, Chanyeol back from his mother’s restaurant, Viva Polo, and Kyungsoo, drama scripts overflowing his backpack - discovered by Joonmyun, his clothes disheveled, dark circles dimming his genial appearance, but a triumphant smirk peeking through the jovial mask he wore, implying his schemes having come to fruition, merely new notches out of the many already on his proverbial belt. His confident affirmation, “It’s been taken care of.”, which supposed to inspire trust, gratitude in Baekhyun, had him shuddering in dread, perspiration breaking out along his spine for he recognized the true implication of his declaration, a chilling reminder to play by the rules, though unwritten they might be, an insinuated warning that one slip up would ensue his early descent to hell - everything had a price, it was beyond his doubt.

61.

Even though Baekhyun was well acquainted with numerous sport activities, had tried his hand at countless genres in his adolescence while struggling to work down the baby fat, taekwondo included, to his knowledge none of them wore him down quite like doing advanced pilates dressed in a sweat suit, seemingly impersonating a salmon baked in tinfoil, missing alone the savory garnish, despite the air conditioner keeping the temperature a steady twenty-five degrees Celsius. His personal trainer, Jongseok showed his amusement at his exhibit of a relatively poor stamina, snapping pictures to his wheezy protests, snickering and tittering, having seen the beseeching pleas under his post, egging him to proceed with the second set, hundred reverse crunches, Russian twists and side planks each, a ghastly combination aiming to define abdominals and eliminate the muffin top, an ironically fond pet name for the source of his troubles. So he hissed, puffed, and groused, funneling all his might into completing the exercises, repeating when his form was deemed incorrect, lifting his chest higher, tucking his chin in, legs steady, thighs trembling due to the exertion, teeth gritted, tendons straining from his endeavors, his mind free of stray thoughts, preoccupied with coordinating separate limbs, fancy plots, meticulous scenarios buried beneath the onslaught of physical stimulation, continuous motion. His efforts merited him cordial praises, copious rounds of enthused back-slapping, an adjusted dietary plan, his report card earning a signed dash, and additional appointments to boost his endurance, all which he profusely thanked, bowing repeatedly in parting, then rashly bolted to the showers, kicking off his coverall, toeing off his shoes to jump below the water stream, thoroughly reveling in the refreshing sensation. Having washed away the sweat condensed on his skin invigorated his senses greatly, ready to master elaborate choreographies, learn lyrics, plentiful role lines, review manuscripts and provide assistance currently required by his teammates, along with invariably piling household chores, whereas he in particular wasn’t keen on cleaning or dusting - actually Minseok, Yixing and Kyungsoo’s forte - he judged it as a task that must be undertaken routinely.

Luckily, their shared flat happened to be orderly, magazines stacked neatly, books replaced on the racks, footgear stashed in the closets, kitchenware stowed away tidily in the cupboards, the single object out place causing Baekhyun to flounder, was Chanyeol’s robot vacuum cleaner, affectionately called Sam, systematically sweeping the floor, rubber tires silently navigating the crevices, its owner nowhere in sight. Avoiding the device, Baekhyun retired to his curtained off den, deposited his carryon into his small wardrobe, and reclined on the portable bed his fans had gifted him on his birthday, sinking within the downy pillows and blankets, luxuriating in the rare comfort he couldn’t afford on a daily basis, eyelids drooping until his gaze fell on the myriad of polaroids taped to the TV stand, some recent, the rest dating back to predebut era, cheerful youngsters laughing, posing obnoxiously, disappearing to be substituted by other inspirited kids, positive of their talents, flourishing abilities, nevertheless dropping out next year. In any case, Chanyeol’s radiant visage was a virtually permanent aspect, dispersed abundantly among the photos, the exception to the rule, youthful, irresistibly boyish and cheekily animate, his signature victory sign completing his playful image, an attribute of his personality, his character winning, captivating at first impression, fairly brash, a little crude, inconsiderate and tactless perhaps, after having become friends, startling facets naturally surfacing, unexpected quirks growing familiar.

The awful traits might had developed a commonplace quality to Baekhyun’s perception, nothing out of the ordinary, unusual or remarkable, the wisecracks and back talks slipping past his awareness, reality catching up with him in the shape of a testy Joonmyun, indifferently ordering him to control his lapdog, put the pest into his place, the menace he projected shrouding him in a confused frenzy much to the leader’s chagrin. “Listen carefully,” the man enunciated, tone brusque, style straightforward, delivering his message in curt phrases, simplistic remarks, “You wanted to protect him, right?” he callously established, a pointless inquiry, an assertion of dominance, Baekhyun’s reply irrelevant, merely a bystander subjected to be a gullible pawn in this play, a livid, maddened intermediary, his instructions set, primed to take effect, his prompt a “Good luck”.

“Excuse me?” Chanyeol’s yell rang backstage, in a vacant changing room, wide vanity mirrors emulating his incensed sneer, magnifying the ferocious snarl eclipsed over his profile, distorting the elfin proportions of his face, an eerie mask taking over, the metamorphosis seamless, the fluent transition having halted Baekhyun’s string of taunts briefly, the venomous jeers caught in his trachea, the temper explosion perplexing him. Regardless, he marched on like a good soldier, heedless of the irreversible repercussions, discounting the risks, steeling his resolution, fortifying his willpower, he retorted, deadpan, “Come on, man!” he teased mockingly, “Being gay is dope, okay?” then pretending to be deep in thoughts, he added, “I accept you, no worries,” the endnote kept jaunty on purpose, a breezy flip for dramatic effects, obscuring his actual reasons. Colour returned to Chanyeol’s ashen face, unsure realization dawning on him, an arrogant snort bubbling out of him, an ingrained defense mechanism to provide distraction, a knee-jerk reflex to counter the stupor he had been forced into, his self-confidence a shield regenerating automatically, a fortress he could handily retreat to - “Don’t tell me…” he was manic in his fancied hilarity, unhinged, a screw loose to an outsider. Baekhyun, reticent, awaited the crazed tirade, the recorder having turned on: “You fell for it?” a deranged chuckle, “No wonder our pretty cockslut here has started gagging for my dick,” he sounded almost doting, discounting the nauseating homophobic slur, tarnishing the ambiguous sentiment, conceit dripping from his manner, “His reaction is priceless, blushing and stuttering in my proximity, it’s killing me!” he said, getting rapidly absorbed into his charade, his whole demeanor adapting to the sinister changes, body language wrapping up his revolution, “You want to join?” eyebrows wiggling, “If we crowd him in the shower, he would scream like a piggy, I bet, “ an impish wink, “So?”

Baekhyun had to swallow down the urge to hurl up the food he had consumed, spew the grub in various stages of digestion over his sponsored outfit, so he could commence the next scene, raise the curtain, set the defining events in motion, bidding goodbye to something rare, precious, a regretful sacrifice, turning his back on an individual in grave need of a secure friendship, “Frankly, it’s disgusting,” a deep breath to brace his psyche, “You’re truly bonkers. Should’ve took the advice, and brushed you off sooner.” He gingerly adapted the dispassionate, contemptuous position, straddle-legged, slouching, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, devil-may-care front upheld, brushing off the baffled “What the hell?”, retaliating with “You’re a nuisance. Either officially come out or stay in the closet, and stop your nonsense for good,” he proceeded sternly, “Indispensable you are not, it’s high time you snapped out of your ridiculous delusions,” the response died away prematurely, “Your petty ideas of jokes are undermining the group dynamic,” a pause to highlight the next sentence, “I can’t allow you dragging us down the drain just because you’re a repressed homosexual, acting up on your dirty fantasies.” With the last nail in the coffin, so to speak, he sat tight, visualizing feasible scenarios, formulating strategies for each aftermath, constructing a problem solving system which was customized to the mercurial status quo, Chanyeol sputtering and stammering incredible gibberish, trying to whitewash the truth behind his recent actions, labeled fanservice innocuously, exonerating soft evidence, claiming his innocence, that Jongin had never opposed, rather he enjoyed the intimacy, craved the presence of a warm body, eager for physical affection.

“It’s only fun and games, don’t be such a killjoy,” he clarified, gaze imploring, seeking approval, “I have no intention to hurt him,” in a haste, “I swear he’s okayed the entire act,” he attested frantically, shook up and fraught, alarm a wash of pallor on his skin, cold blue-green highlighting his blood vessels, capillaries surfacing in crimson, a red drenched in aquamarine powder, showcasing the intricate spider web network at the edges of his bitten mouth and doleful eyes. Baekhyun feigned hesitation, drawing out the nerveracking seconds, inspecting the telling jolts and tremors, before exercising mercy, breaking off the psychic torture, “Well, Jongin said otherwise,” the final blow, “Anyway, stay away from him for your own sake,” incredulous nods, quizzical blinks, “Also, find a different avenue to have your certain cravings satisfied,” he proposed, mentally ticking off items from his list, crossing out the last article, “Nothing personal, I hope you understand.” He didn’t stick around to see Chanyeol fighting back tearful comebacks, wrestling on street clothes, washing away tear marks with icy tap water, hiccups cutting off his quivery breathes; he blankly strode down the dead corridors, detachedly dropped the dictaphone into Joonmyun’s open palm at the exit, no pleasantries exchanged, and fled wordless into the buzzing spring afternoon.

54.

Even in mid-July the dawn air retained a stinging bite, the pullover a welcome addition, staving off the chills, encasing him in warmth, the tendrils of a dream clinging to him, yawns leaving him unremittingly as he blindly trailed after Yongmin, ranting about his schedule, rattling off dates, locations and names, not minding his comatose state or the sluggish answers he offered, boarding the car on autopilot, stretching out on the cramped seat, assuming a pose suitable for a catnap. Someone tall and bony, probably Sehun with his sharp elbows, hard shoulders and pointy kneecaps, climbed into the van next, aligning himself against Baekhyun, his snuffles condensating on his cheek, mumbles near incomprehensible, repeatedly calling a person, finally appeased when dragged into a hug, sleepy wails petering out, content in the snuggle, dozing off till they arrived at COEX Artium, Yeongdong-daero 513., the managers rousing them, dispensing cups of tepid Americano. Baekhyun accepted the drink, humming “Thank you,” peering at the adjacent pair, Sehun and Jongin, their limbs entwined, sharing coffee, noses scrunching up in revolt, chattering away subduedly, feeding themselves creamcheese bagel, wiping away smatterings of condiment, fixing their clothing and hairstyle, applying lip balm, absolutely synchronised, attuned to each other. Their affinity was enviable, a bond Baekhyun hungered for, although he had fought resolute to curb the yearning, smother the ache festering innermost, avoid cantankerous infection with varying results, ranging from nights spent wide-awake to stuporous numbness, objects achromatic, flat, resembling a print in neutrals of the Seoul skyline peppered with high-rises, sleek glass panes, structural laminated and tempered, flashing steel skeletons, the beams coated with plaster, vermiculite; protection against corrosion, heat. A shield comparable to the peculiar mixture of fiberglass batting and aluminium foil was what Baekhyun lacked, imperative for survival, normalcy, notwithstanding, he made do without the buffer, ought to carry on his job, function flawlessly, naught amiss, simultaneously venturing to kick his inconvenient habits, escape Jongin’s powerful gravitational field, its potential: force divided by mass.

Orbiting around Jongin was undemanding and consoling, a path memorized, known by heart, to stray from the trajectory an impossible feat, beyond his capabilities, comprehension that a boy imperfect, broken and crooked had become his secure haven in a turbulent macrocosmos, an isolated system within human made chaos, a home fickle, precarious, easy to lose, the route leading to the threshold continuously redrawn, transfigured. Perhaps the fear of incalculable expected probabilities, unforeseeable developments caused his unhealthy wariness, the interconnected factors out of reach, inflexible, stubborn, not unlike Joonmyun, strolling two steps ahead, politely greeting fans gathered at the entrance who waved back by brandishing makeshift banners, and bowed repeatedly in their general direction, occasionally squealing, jumping in excitement when their favourite had sauntered past them. Baekhyun bid the group good morning, determined to put on a bright image, ignoring the flashlight or the disturbing cluster of phones in his periphery, catching the petite man sidling up to Jongin, tentatively initiating a conversation, sniggering at the younger’s chagrined disjointed sentences, petting his arm in good humor, their exchange carrying over the enormous foyer, suggesting they were arranging an appointment, a ideal date to visit their families, Joonmyun griping about his mother’s having nagged him to bring Jongin along. His glance over his right side, one glimmering with fondness, caution having subsided, the demons apparently resting, met Baekhyun’s watchful gaze, steadfastly inspecting their behaviour, scrutinizing their body language, analyzing shifts in stances and miniscule motions; the reason why he didn’t miss the lethal intent suddenly prevailing over Joonmyun’s relaxed demeanour, forewarning him to steer clear of his charge or handle the grisly aftermath. Fragments from a past dialogue floated to the conscious level of his awareness, no threats, a sole pledge to guard and retribute, a noble oath Baekhyun couldn’t ridicule, discount, must acknowledge, consider preceding his acts, maneuvers, lest he unwittingly destroy the feeble accordance, the compromise that allowed him to stay with Jongin, labels, definitions uncontested, their relation in constant flux, evolving spontaneously, their tie amorphous.

He had been rehearsing the opening sequence of Miracles in December on his trusty Yamaha synthesiser, pausing momentarily to adjust the ranges and tones, tinker with the overall sound, when Joonmyun, having knocked politely, entered the bedroom, his strangely somber presence clueing him in to expect a stern lecture on pulling pranks during inappropriate times and places, or shirking his dorm duties, coercing his gullible bandmates to complete his assignments. In his defense, Kyungsoo disliked dirty laundry collecting above five days, hence normally he would do the washing on his own accord, grumbling about rotting material, moldering undergarments, and mildew spreading over the apartment; Minseok detested dusty surfaces, notably grimy wood floor, tiles, scale-coated sinks and basins, he would turn up seldom, armed with cleaning supplies, antiseptic, fumigant, scouring powder, exile the occupants, sanitize the entire dorm, eventually leaving once he presumed everything was assuredly immaculate. Baekhyun felt vaguely guilty, sorry for evading the domestic work, recognizing their tiredness, couldn't overlook the weariness painted over their features, thus he turned off the keyboard, plopped down to the mattress next to a seated Joonmyun, willing to amend his offenses, correct his wrongdoings, receive the chiding he deserved - instead they maintained the skittish silence for moments, Baekhyun nearly falling asleep in the interim, startling awake to the supple tenor of the leader’s voice.

“Your intentions, can I have faith in your sincerity,” inquired Joonmyun, pondering, commencing their discussion, “indulging in your deception or,” his intonation acquiring a sinister edge, alarm creeping under Baekhyun’s serene facade, “be disillusioned at the expense of a heartbreak?” his cadence rose sharply, the query afloat in the stifling air, an oppressive cloud of hidden purposes and unrevealed motives asphyxiating him gradually. Breathing obstructed, Baekhyun’s mind whirred, sifting through options, relevant topics, dismissing innocuous flirtation, rejecting midnight escapades on the roof, attempting to pinpoint the case which triggered Joonmyun’s resentment, the person, precisely, who warranted his protection, was important, held dear to justify the raised red flags, the wake-up call delivered directly - “You’re so painfully transparent,” interrupted his ruminations, freezing his depthless introspection. Baekhyun derived pleasure from believing himself to be undecipherable, mysterious, even enigmatic in other’s judgment, reveled in his dubious sphinxlike state he had prudently cultivated over base blather and insidious slander, appreciated the indeterminate sacrosanct standing it brought forth, making him impervious to spleen, rancor, dirt, but akin to the hybrid creature of the ancient Greek mythology, he would fall over the cliff, plunging to his death the moment someone found out his weakness, the chink in his armor. Joonmyun, his Oedipus who had solved the wily riddle preserving Thebes, eradicating the existence of daring, foolhardy fellows, also eliminated him from the equation by unraveling his puzzle, figuring out the secret he had recently learnt, come to fathom, accepted the irrefutable, the matter which didn’t evade the leader’s observations as well, the supplying “I’ve been watching you” validating his hunches, the flat “Jongin told me what had transpired” proving his fears a reality. Rather than dread, apathy, a crippling stupor settled over his senses, laying him bare, exposed to the prospective probe and pry, the extraction of a confession premature, the intended recipient blissfully ignorant, missing from the context, the disclosure insignificant, worthless, failing to deliver the revelation, the epiphany, “You’ve fallen,” down the crevasse he had tumbled, no parachute slowing his descent, “I know,” the rock bottom, its cruel details clearer as his altitude decreased.

“Now what?” the vanishing respite, the fleeting break, suspension of progress gave him clarity, sweeping the paralysis away, affright dousing him with salience, the undulating shades in Joonmyun’s stare less disheartening, simply shadows casted by the wane sunlight infiltrating the room, refracting on his lenses, tiny ebony and ivory dots, flickering stars on the crystal crushed brown velvet mantle of his irises, “Does it change anything at all?” Joonmyun’s hesitation lasted approximately a single heartbeat of a jewel encrusted hummingbird, doubt, indecision evaporating from his disposition, conviction noticeably suffusing his entirety, lending him fortitude, valor to speak the words altering the parameters characterizing their predicament, disturbing the balance, a prudently crafted, fastidiously sustained equilibrium between them, “It depends on you” tipping the scales, the previous stasis broken, gone astray. Baekhyun fidgeted a bit on the crumpled sheets, wiggling his toes, absently poking the thick comforter by his feet, feigning discomfiture, puzzlement he hadn’t ever tasted, the flighty soda bubbles having fizzed out upon cracking the bottle, the lurking genie set free, let loose to wreak havoc, rear a mayhem out of his scrupulously guarded feelings, trash the grave fortress he had built, chosen as a hideout in view of the turbulent periods he might experience. “If I take on a role that converts me into a quasi-fixed factor, a permanent input to your model,” he outlined the unfolding scenario, “give free rein to you,” he tasted, sampled the spoken terms, drawling, “can you promise his total safety?” to which the retort was “Yes” and a smirk, “but you’re the one who will secure his well-being,” dowsing him, the smouldering embers outrage had invoked, in glacial, sub-zero temperature water, phantom coils of mist spiralling, whirling around when the phase change occurred, liquid evaporating into gas, a classic example for a Chemistry textbook. Baekhyun was stumped by the unanticipated responsibility thrusted on his head, his lacking conscientiousness; his independence dematerializing, the carte blanche filled with fine black lettering, typeface 12 point Courier prominent in the dimness engulfing the space separating Joonmyun’s sinewy thighs from his pallid, chubby stomach, the most vulnerable, tender part of a body, human or animal. “Don’t make me worry,” a playful belly rub, hands kneading his tummy, gestures he would copy while cuddling his Welsh Corgi, cooing at his pet, crowing “Good boy” just like Joonmyun, indulgent, fairly silly, although he spared the unmistakable condescension saturating the leader’s tone, who nimbly stood up, his job well done, calling “I take my leave,” the faint indentations on the bedspread the only mementos that their decisive exchange had happened.

42.

A peek outside confirmed the estimated size of the crowd, several hundred supporters clogging the road, blocking the side-walk, hindering customer passage to nearby cafés lined by the lane, similarly packed with their admirers who had opted to follow the proceedings from distance, sipping cooled beverages, their phone and camera on standby, set to document the spectacle - the atmosphere was sizzling, apart from the sweltering heat, the sun fiery above the mass. Within the SPAO staff room organizers were busy briefing the participators, unflappable Minseok, a chipper Jongin snuggled against his arms, Chanyeol exuberantly absorbing the customary guidelines, Baekhyun, having divided his attention, was concentrating on the pair interacting in front of him, across the desk sprayed with printed instructions, some entries underlined with red permanent marker, keywords encircled, imperatives repeatedly stressed. A maximum of three minutes per attendant was allocated, dialogues must be kept sweet and short, limited personal contact was advisable, and security guards would interfere at any traces of distress, guaranteed the organizers, their smiles benign, appeasing, anxiety a looming shadow, hiding in obscure corners where light was unable to penetrate, the niches Baekhyun navigated regularly, the darkness an associate infamous, treated delicately. He remained quiet throughout the rundown on basic safety regulations covering the subjects of fire escape routes, terrorist attacks, and panic-driven stampedes, nodding courteously at odd intervals, upholding his mock concern, despite finding the idea of an aggressive strike on a fansign event highly unrealistic, bizarre, no matter how popular EXO supposed to be worldwide - an A-list Korean actress had more chance to be kidnapped for a hefty ransom at Incheon International Airport. The shrill notes of the alarm cut the drab monologue off, signalling the start in five minutes, which propelled everyone to assume their stand-by position, his group members lining up obediently by the plexi doors, Chanyeol’s broad backside blocking Yixing, Minseok and the exterior view, Jongin fiddling idly with the hem of his shirt, creasing the white cotton hopelessly, repeatedly reminding Baekhyun of his devastating proximity, that finally he was within arm’s distance.

Jongin’s aura had it’s own life, crackling electricity and sizzling fieriness on stage, lethargic mellowness, restrained stoicism surrounded by strangers, fuzzy serenity, simmering affection among his friends, solidifying, bonds crystallizing in Baekhyun’s presence, almost a physical touch, a wall he could lean upon comfortably to borrow strength, support now and again, whenever he felt at loss, bewildered by humanity. He tilted backward until Jongin’s chin rested cozily on the top of his head, flattening down the mussed up hair, able to sense the vibrations above, traveling over his chest as Jongin hummed Love Me Right under his breath, body twitching minutely, trying to reenact the convoluted choreography unthinkingly, jostling, rocking Baekhyun in his cozy cradle, lulling him, gentling his nerves, quelling the disquiet born in the obscurity of twilight. No sunshine might have touched his brows, eyelids, or lips, still the frost had thawed in the secluded corners of his rugged spirit, inert sections regaining vitality, springing back into being, a few missing parts found, placidity brushing past him, providing him a brief reprieve, the obnoxious ringtone blaring “P R E double T Y” breaking the hush he was entrenched in, “Pretty Boy” announcing ostentatiously the caller. Jongin immediately plucked his phone out of the back pocket, struggling a little with his skintight jeans strained over his legs, succeeding in snatching the device, hastily swiping to accept the call, mustering a “Let me text you later,” bowing relentlessly, apologizing to the crew regarding him testily, fingers flying on the screen, possibly composing a note to post in the group chat containing his closest mates, then abruptly ramming the muted gadget into its original place. A woman in their perimeter smothered a curse, muttering “Freaking good for nothing brats,” trailing off hesitantly when Baekhyun caught her eyes, mimicked calling her supervisor, gingerly enunciating the vowels and consonants, so she could undoubtedly discern the words, “I would like to make a formal complaint,” accompanied by a vexing simper, a cheeky wink, a brash action, which her senior colleague had spotted, the scandalized matron swatting at her, presuming she had been flirting all along. Fortunately, Jongin hadn’t caught on to their tiny interlude, too immersed in his embarrassment to note the shenanigans, Taemin occupying most of his thoughts perchance, the daze enshrouding him wholly as usual, effectively isolating him from his direct environment, the loud bellow to go and the chaperon’s insistent push on his waist snapping him out of the unresponsiveness, hence he lurched after Baekhyun, shuffling to grab his belt loops. The unbearable swelter outdoors hit them asudden, sweat soon accumulating in the groove of their spine, the cheap material the uniform jersey was fabricated from sticking uncomfortably to their skin, the heavy moisture in the air an intricately woven quilt, its layers trapping, preserving the sultriness of the summer weather, sunstroke imminent under the cerulean sky, the ozone glowing a vivid turquoise in the stratosphere. Baekhyun ignored the perspiration trickling to amalgamate at the elastic waist of his boxers, persistently showcasing his insolent grin, soaking up the fans’ excited energy, their enthused reaction to the smallest indication that the members had acknowledged their loving gestures, the painstakingly designed posters, customized hand-held fans fluttering, shielding flushed, awaiting faces, the anticipation palpable, something he wouldn’t dream to forsake. Following the meet and greet section, which had satisfied the ceaseless need for proper media coverage, flashlights going off perpetually, journalists intercepting their comrades in order to get their questions answered; they ultimately proceeded with the autographing session, sat at the narrow table, elbows on the immaculate linen, permanent markers, bottles of sparkling water, coffee concoctions lined up facing them, brand logos hidden under tacky stickers.

Primarily young females, high school or university students, and stylish office ladies queued up to collect the sought after signatures completed with special messages, often cute doodles, hearts, stylized bears, lions, puppies, whatever was requested and matched their image, their pens moving smoothly over the paper, glyceride dissolving, the black ink drying to form squashed hangeul characters, irrecognizable outlines of animals. Strangely enough, Baekhyun was always rejuvenated by fansigns, the intensive communication with their supporters cheering him up immensely, energizing him over grueling weeks, strengthening his determination to ride out any type of waves he might encounter, confidently swim against the currents, except for an area where he was admittedly helpless like a newborn colt, wobbling, tottering in the stable, legs folding, unsteady. Regrettably, he had to get a handle on the shakiness exactly forty-five minutes later, when Jongin, wearing an elated smile, jumped into a silver grey van parking at the intersection, pulled the car door closed, not bothering with farewells or send offs, driving off discreetly, sparing the fanfare and flourish, keeping a lid on his business, covering up his own tracks, regardless that the entire management was on a look out for photos, blog posts, tweets which could be the ground for speculation of the spiteful variety. At the corporation the couple’s existence was an open secret, their identity widely recognized: trainees, lyricists, producers were mindful of the inseparable pair, well acquainted with their dating routine, the quaint way they behaved in each other’s company, how effortlessly they communicated via body language, inobtrusive touches, their gazes crossing every now and then, the elusive dance they had devised baby step by step in their halcyon days. Minseok appeared thoughtful, contemplatively taking in the nondescriptive wagon slipping into the afternoon traffic, remarking drolly “The lovebirds are fleeing to their nest,” chuckling quietly, gingerly scanning his teammates’ profiles, watching Chanyeol awkwardly swallow a gulp of iced Americano, Yixing pouting, lamenting that he planned to treat “Jonginnie” for dinner since he had been guesting variety shows in China nonstop. Baekhyun plodded after them, the eldest having declared sushi for lunch which met no objection, half listening to Minseok consoling the Chinese man, “He’d be back in the evening, so there are plenty chances to catch up,” Yixing nodding rapidly in response, “I hope so,” swiftly changing the subject, retelling anecdotes about the Go Fighting! cast he was recently working with, sharing his funny experiences while he was shooting in Shanghai, Chongqing and Yunnan. In spite of being interested, curious himself, Baekhyun could only participate in their chitchat lackadaisically, too lost in thought, engrossed in the mental images flashing behind his eyelids, his pulse rising, speeding inordinately, the rush dampening his hearing, memories of pleasure flushed skin, glazed expression, sensual grimaces surfacing, the plywood panel crushing his right side, breath fogging the confined space, a closet stuffed with discarded stage costumes.

When their senior Jinwoon and Park Seyoung announced the winner of Music Bank, 2013. June 14., Baekhyun hadn’t expected the name EXO to be called, whilst Cho Yongpil was nominated, a prominent figure in the history of Korean pop music, was bewildered to apprehend that they won with such a risky single as Wolf, an eccentric electronica - rock - hip hop mashup, that was SM Entertainment’s take on proactive strategic action and progressive trend setting tendencies. The board of creative directors and producers had been discussing the group’s development, sensibly pointing out the obvious shortcomings, matching up the inventory with the few strengths the group possessed, realizing the project called for a comprehensive revision, a reexamination of concepts, band roles, the differentiating feature that would make them stand out and lead to eventual success. Inviting professional consultants, frequenting industry conferences prompted them to research the Electronic genre, Techno, Ambient, Trance, Acid House included, gradually narrowing down the possibilities to Dubstep, calling in composers to create more crowd friendly tunes, fusions where the harsh beat was diffused in happy melodies, sunshine, bubblegum or urban pop assortments. The boys were reasonably skeptical upon learning about the new approach - the werewolf theme was easy enough to adopt seeing the influx of supernatural creatures in the mainstream media, the choreography by Tony Testa the sole saving grace in their opinion, a sentiment they chose not to broadcast especially in the practice or recording rooms, mumbling profanities under their breath, cursing the supervisors and their distant family. In addition, due to unpredictable complications their comeback date got delayed, which equaled to rehearsals ad nauseum, ceaseless scoldings, snide reprimands abrading their patience, muscles cramping, ankles twisting, cold packs tearing from excessive use, the group’s cohesion slowly diluting with their missing member putting a strain on precariously maintained friendships, challenging the system founded on emotional bonds and collectivism. Baekhyun tended to apply euphemisms liberally, but in this case he was forced to admit that their triumph was accounted to the people surrounding them, who pushed their sorry ass till the first stage, the finish line, so he could empathize with Joonmyun, his ugly crying mug, the wine red creeping up his capillaries, staining his naturally pale, porcelain doll complexion, akin to drops of blood disintegrating in glass brimming with milk.

Sneaking off from the commotion, the avalanche of congratulations, he slinked stealthily to his favoured retreat, a wardrobe tucked away in an abandoned waiting room, various dresses, sequined, satin, checkered, polka dotted, crammed in partially, leaving ample space for a small built man - Baekhyun liked curling up in the back with a pleasant game or an engaging webtoon, tulle skirts cushioning his sides, tuning out the outside world, the hardships awhile. Driven by the compulsion for a breather, however short that might last, he stalked down the hallway, ducking his head to avoid unnecessary attention, hastening his steps until he arrived at an indistinctive entry, the drab metal paint chipping off at its corners; he jiggled the squeaking handle, creeping in after having ensured that nobody noticed him disappear, going straight for the locker, crawling inside, dragging the doors to a narrow crack. Pulling out his phone, he began systematically replying to the text messages, giving accent, a bit of cute flair by including bunny stickers, sparkling hearts and emoticons; he also answered a few calls from his thrilled cousins, loquacious aunts and reserved uncles, their Gyeonggido dialect soothing the homesickness building up in his chest, the longing for unconditional love and kindness.

He froze for a split second when the entrance was opened by a tittering set of boys slithering in from the packed corridors, their faces hidden in the dingy alcove, entirely wrapped up in one another to detect the wane glow his screen emanated which he killed belatedly, making sure that his breathing was soft, silent, the pattern steady, as the intruders shuffled about, the taller guy perching on a padded settee. In the ambient lighting, just sufficient to distinguish the fine facial structure of Lee Taemin, his youthful features contorted in a playful, rather provocative smirk, eyeing the seated male, who wore very familiar white bermudas, a sleeveless shirt, and a bandana scarf tied at his throat - Kim Jongin, Baekhyun caught on at last, trailing his gaze over his obscenely spread thighs, submissive posture, parted, swollen lips, the clear gloss an enticing sheen on the bitten, fleshy pink. The mood between the friends seemed tense, charged with suspense, the sexual undertone blatant in the suggestive tilt of Taemin’s smile, his pearly teeth flashing, or the sensual fashion their bodies slanted to complement, accomplish an amorous harmony, resembling an ancient Greek sculpture depicting a group, its master having relied on the contrapost technique to balance out the composition. Taemin leaned down, so he could thumb at the puffy skin the victory tears had left behind, nonchalantly crawling up on the bench, stooping, languidly kissing a pliant Jongin, the filthy wet sound that was tongues sliding over, tangling and twisting barely audible despite Baekhyun sitting duck in the wardrobe, swallowing dryly, nibbling on his fingernails to muffle any noise escaping mouth, exposing his whereabouts. Wandering fingers explored the expanding bump at Jongin’s crotch, feeling out the general shape, breadth and width, caressing the growing bulge through the linen cloth, causing the younger let out a breathy whine, squirming under the ministration, hips unmistakably canting towards the mild pressure, the fluid motion hypnotizing, stuttering only when Taemin exerted force, his biceps flexing, keeping Jongin inert. Conceding to his lover’s testy request, “Hurry up, we have twenty minutes top”, Taemin pulled down the loose pants, mindful of the elastic band catching on the mushroom head, freed the swollen shaft, smearing the transparent precum along the length, the liquid pronouncing the thickened veins, then started fisting the dick bloated with blood, cajoling hoarse groan, harsh sobs out of a trashing Jongin. “I’m close,” stuttered the male, brow beaded with sweatdrops, legs shaking above the ragged carpet, and Taemin deemed his state perfect to remove his trousers, arrange his feet along his hips presenting Jongin’s smooth bottom, the puny, puckered opening under his sack, the untended erection bobbing slightly over his crunched abdominals - warm tingles stirring in his stomach, fire embers wobbling on the night breeze, made Baekhyun clamp his own thighs, the prickles under his skin intensifying with every moment. He watched partly outraged, astounded, goosebumps flourishing on his arms, how the blond huddled studiously in front of Jongin’s groin, diving in, nose nuzzling against the scrotum, plush lips pressed on the bridge, pecking, grazing the sensitive surface, teasing his pleading friend, rosette muscle darting out to wet the furrowed ring, dip inside the circle, wiggling around, stretching, wetting the crevice with saliva. At least that was the conclusion Baekhyun could come up with, judging on the lewd scenery, plus his fairly limited insight concerning the mechanics of anal sex, he derived from the scarce gay porn videos he had clicked on out of curiosity, which always appeared neat, sterile, discounting the overheated ambience, the aggressive shoves, the borderline sadomasochistic acts that nauseated, repulsed, instead of arousing him. Now, Jongin arched off the the divan, collapsing into a graceful concave, formerly styled hair drenched in perspiration, tendons straining in his neck, their paleness accentuating the golden brown flush, Taemin’s hand tightening on his rear, squeezing, fondling, eliciting delicious gasps, his own face squashed by sumptuous asscheeks, sucking on the rim, lapping at the pliable interior, jabbing one, two, three - the same rhythm Jongin’s chest emulated. Lust wormed over ribs, hindering his placid breathing pattern, his baffling physical response persisting, his cock hard and aching within his spandex boxers, persisting in the face of various mental exercises promising instant tranquility, Baekhyun was unable to block out the audiovisual stimuli kindling his libido, the technicolour image of EXO’s Kai squirming in a forgotten dressing room, his preassigned charming sweetheart role discarded; at the present he was just Kim Jongin, drowning in undiluted sexual haze. A boy still, at the threshold of adulthood, a prodigious child and a sensible man, wise beyond his age, condensed in 182 cm, bending under Lee Taemin’s sensual reign, a marionette doll governed by wires, nerve endings, carnal gratification melting, softening the adamantine aura he had acquired during the brutal trainee selection processes, project groups forming and disbanding in a ceaseless circle. Spine an inverted parabola, he was study in feverish passion, earthly delights, wanton vices, fallen angels crowning him with a grandiose wreath forged out of orange cognac diamonds set in rose gold filigree, his best friend lapping filthily against his hole, calling forth bitten off wails, choked whispers, Jongin’s fingers tangling in champagne coloured strands, tugging, needling for more, deeper licks, sloppier kisses, stronger suction. Quietly, Taemin obeyed, indecently smacking his puffy lips, staring his lover with unquenchable hunger, fervor and enthusiasm propelling him to be braver, gutsier with his mouth, nip at the tightening balls, catch the bittersweet fluid leaking down in thin rivulets, the feeble shivers quaking over Jongin’s torso an indicator that he was right at the precipice, merely needing a gentle shove - Taemin straightened into a kneeling position, swallowed around his cock, allowing the semen trickle into his throat. His own hips stuttered, swiveled, while he rode out the orgasm, the resulting grimace an erotic mask, Baekhyun a nonplused spectator, a make believe voyeur witnessing a spectacle beyond his wildest imaginations, denied wet dreams, abdominal muscles contracting so he could repress, subdue the primal urge to appease his physical cravings, drawing in gulps of stale air, smelling, tasting exertion, sex and drying cum as he attempted calming himself. Numerous rounds of slow countdowns later his boner ultimately wilted, but the bewildering thoughts, ideas drifting, whizzing in his mind didn’t let him rest, unwind, the staggering implications yet out of his reach, disorientation, queasiness throwing him off, muddling his reasoning progress, not quite registering when he climbed out of the closet, found his way to the manager triumvirate, and had them lead him to the van, still stuck on Jongin’s loose limbed gait, the rusty door, Baekhyun shut behind him.

28.

Nowadays, having an off afternoon they could spend at their leisure was a rare, priceless gift, one Baekhyun decided to savor, rejoice in absolutely, notwithstanding whatever inane activity he would manage to get involved in, whether it would be paragliding, sand boarding or a paintball match with the local middle school kids, most likely delinquents blowing off some steam rather than beating up their mark, a helpless classmate. He was unexpectedly graced by Minseok’s presence though, his companionship a well worn sweater, its colours faded from the countless wash cycles, the textile pilled, whereas the heat insulation and wearing comfort remained first-rate; hanging around the elder always proved to be surprisingly relaxing, the cozy camaraderie they had built steady, a reliable constant, the petite man proving to be a remarkable sounding board, an exceptional listener under guise of chic indifference. Since Baekhyun was inclined to act either like a hyperactive child high on sugary concoctions - Dark Moccacino, Belgian Chocolate Coffee Cooler, Salted Caramel Macchiato with extra syrup and the rest - or a particularly stubborn kindergartener a quarter hour before the obligatory silent period, the moderate tempered members generally ditched him in exchange of calmer, what Joonmyun would call wholesome, pastimes. Ironically enough, working out in penthouse gym was also part of the mutually approved list of non-work occupations, which resulted in engraved platinum membership cards, extraorbitant Nike sneakers collections, XXL protein supplement bottles stacked haphazardly on the kitchen counter, chicken and turkey breast loaded in the freezer and training regimen A/3 sheets flowing off the dinner table, temporarily serving as biodegradable place mats.

The Nike store in Myeongdong interior-wise was comparable to a giant, aggressively glowing neon rainbow against the matt black wallpaper, the designer unmistakably aiming for a postmodern, stripped down, edgy style, ending up with a literally blinding design, the garish arrangement inducing a dull headache, soon evolving into a full fledged migraine, the cedrus scented potpourri deadening his olfactory senses. In the left corner Minseok looked admirably unaffected, obviously out of place with normcore clothing garments on, browsing the running shoes section, the sales assistant right at his back, fixedly staring, periodically nodding, then scrambling to the storage room for the pairs exactly in the requested size and colour, leaving her customer to plop down next to Baekhyun on a weird hybrid of a sofa and a bench. Having vacillated in an appropriate manner, bending the soles, checking the fit, the tread, the seams on the sides, worrying the shop employees, Minseok eventually chose two pairs in glitzy highlighter yellow and green, hauling Baekhyun to the adjacent brand store, which carried sport gear, sensible outfits offered for outlandish prices, the unassuming tags cleverly hiding the long string of zeroes, the sums that would hardly make a dent in their bank account. Nonetheless, purchasing unnecessary items when shirts and sweatpants in mint condition were stockpiled in the dorm was a sure sign of Minseok being stressed out, burdened by the monsters skulking beneath his bed, in broad daylight, intermingling with faceless passerbies, the bluish gray shadows pronounced under his eyes visible even beneath the peach tinted concealer he had dabbed on early morning, the additional acting classes for the historical movie, the innumerable hours spent moving, perfecting choreographies taking a toll on his mind and body. It was a peculiar Catch-22, ideal outcomes unattainable, their choices contradicting themselves, a snake biting its own tail, attempting to excel at all possible areas, but failing everything of import, resolving the cognitive dissonance by rigorously training, adding definition to their musculature, surviving on steamed vegetables, broccoli, carrot, lean meat, fish, trying to curtail the dubious aftermath, downsize the unfavourable effect, demonstrate their will to improve, the modesty demanded in the name of the higher ups. Baekhyun was deeply familiar with the symptoms, the clues which indicated he must stop, call it a day and discard the misconstructions, the conjectures he allowed to contaminate his thoughts, the pernicious propaganda spread, circulated in the company, influencing interpersonal exchanges, along with weather talks and the heart-to-heart sessions, the recycled dogma, their official credo  echoing between the carelessly spoken lines. When marathoning series, trilogies, tetralogies, or slaughtering zombies didn’t help shaking off the binds of the pervasive axioms, he liked pretending to be a bona fide undergraduate, diligently taking notes during lectures, absent mindedly nodding at the professor’s questions, shying away from the attention given by the teachers, puttering on his laptop, completing entirely different assignments, racing to his part-time job ideally at a coffeeshop, but, he assumed, a fast food joint would pay just as well. He imagined the route to the university, the morning rush on the subway - the notoriously jam-packed Line 2 - the cheap espresso doppio, hot water in an insulated mug, four teaspoon of instant mix, a creamer and five sugar cubes, amping up his heart rate, the weariness after a late night shift, waiting tables, the relief that he could slum at his tiny studio apartment he rented with two other sophomore. Then he would mimic, act on the baseless notions, haunt karaoke establishments, call a friend and go for a drive, drain soju bottles, dance with sparklers in his hands until he had been convinced he was Byun Baekhyun from Bucheon, a twenty-four year old male who dreamed of singing on an enormous stage, his voice making the magic happen, enchanting the mass, so they would brush aside their problems for a moment.

Each person had a unique recreational method, which would differ in effectiveness, duration and approach; Minseok, apparently required a friend, company to unwind, someone that called him on his birth name, remembered he was only human, not EXO-M’s Xiumin, a product distributed by SM Entertainment, its specifications incorporated in marketing strategies, short term action plans, paraphrased in scenarios envisioning radically disparate market outlooks. Raffling through the racks gave him opportunity to practice mundane habits, customs - ordering a meal, paying with card, cruising at the Han river bank for instance - the gestures amounting to a sense of normalcy, a foreign dimension, an alternative universe where Kim Minseok was an average, not a particularly bright or useful guy by Korean society standards, pursuing a Master’s degree in Applied Music at Catholic Kwandong University. He would be considered as the black sheep in his family, a shame, a blemish on his parents’ reputation in an outsider’s point of view, regardless that both his father and mother supported him financially, emotionally, enabling him to carry on with a straight poise, positive attitude, steady focus in the classrooms, setting him on a road of success, one which wasn’t flooded by spotlight, but could lead him to a promising future anyway, if he sacrificed enough freedom, pain and enthusiasm. Though their mindset, interpretation of serious subjects diverged greatly, Baekhyun was dead certain that his band member would have preferred the draining lessons, the general contempt, the commiserating glances to their hazardous lifestyle, the perpetual sleep deprivation, the non-existent privacy thanks to the psychotic individuals stalking them, trailing after their steps or the agency’s policy which belittled the actual threat on their person. Although illusionary independence, a white-bread mirage could be perilous, disengaging them from the harsh reality, functioning as a Panopticon, a perfect prison, a maze ensnaring their rational judgement; innocent daydreams were vital, essential for the remnants of sanity they had salvaged, safeguarded tightly, so they would have a chance at a facsimile that could pass the criteria listed under normal life. Someday he would like to have a family, children he could care for, might coddle, pamper a bit, and a trusted partner, a lover who knew him, his most regretful secrets, the swallowed words he had never uttered, having lacked the courage, the unvoiced confessions, the details constructing his personality, shaping his future and had forged his past, the present he was attempting to survive with his wit intact.

The backstage was a life-size replica of chaos, pandemonium buckling at the reins, the elaborated schedule involving lights, stage-set, clothing, makeup, hairdo and personnel; people skidding on the platform, bruising knees, chafing elbows, careening over fibreglass cables, stylists flouncing with hairspray or foundation in their fists, dabbing at acne scars, the T-zone, applying highlighter in the star area. Ignoring the way his stomach was rebelling against the multivitamin tonic a manager shoved down his throat, Baekhyun had a go at properly warming up his vocal chords, careful not to overexert himself, simply humming the melodies, watching his breathing technique, struggling to tune out rowdy clutter surrounding him - Jongdae and Minseok had flocked to the Chinese boys currently babbling nervously at the pianoforte, where Yixing was playing a mournful rendition of Angel, correcting pronunciations every so often. Kyungsoo hunkered in an loveseat by the door, nursing some honey tea, skimming over the lyrics, at his feet lay Chanyeol in the spread-eagle position, bobbing his head to Coldplay’s Magic probably, his countenance lax and sunny, his enjoyment visible, not unlike Joonmyun idling by the clothes rack, appearing smug, shockingly relaxed, his posture slack, the near militant streak having vanished for the night, lending him a gentler air. Jongin was nowhere in sight, Baekhyun remarked with a jolt, their main dancer curiously absent which could mean he was either dozing off in a bathroom stall or had located an empty storage room, using the free space to jog his memory, polish his skills, wasting energy in other words, burning his reserves out, none that was decidedly advisable before an hour long showcase, so he resolved to call the “hyung card” and drag the youngster back.

As if he had been commanded, Jongin turned up beside their leader, tapping him on the shoulder, subtly drawing the older man into a conversation, asking for permission, Baekhyun concluded, seeing Joonmyun realigning his stance, snapping to a chilling intentness, his gaze blade sharp, the intelligence, an often overlooked, underestimated weapon, transforming his visage dramatically, his cheekbones cutting, the jut of his chin unforgiving. Despite keeping his voice low, Jongin betrayed himself per gesticulating wildly, dancing obliviously in order to emphasize, articulate his plea, a mysterious appeal perhaps too hazardous, jeopardizing their debut, if Joonmyun’s reception could provide an honest tip-off, a pointer to go on, a clue he would base his hypothesis on, figure out why their visual was high-strung, what he was striving to obtain so recklessly. For reasons elusive, Baekhyun kept tabs on Jongin more frequently than desirable, practical, since the younger boy was not of the conspiring, plotting material, inclined staying in the studios, hanging out with the choreographers, or napping on the bean-bags located in the basement, having converted into a quiet area, the sprawling grounds presenting ample restful options to the beat employees. No, the state of denial, a fake condition withal, definitely didn’t suit Baekhyun, considering he took pride in being unflinchingly forthright with himself, able to dissect his capabilities impartially, the competences outstanding compared to the group average, but acutely lacking when matched against true genius, the talent nurtured within, honed to a sleek edge, demonstrated during the trivial chores. He understood that jealousy, petty envy weren’t becoming, didn’t aid him in his advancement, actually crippling his potential, distracting him from his main purpose, having admitted he could never win, triumph, trample his rival, a trainee whose presence was larger than life, his aura commanding attentiveness, demanding, gaining awe and adoration, a charisma his wouldn’t measure up to, his resolution utterly useless. Still, he couldn’t help to watch, snoop on their visual, intending to spot weaknesses or the formula of success, so he could capitalize on it and leave the masses behind, if not for his inability to get a grasp on the rare skills, born out of innate gifts, inimitable, unparalleled, learning instead how genuine happiness manifested on Jongin’s face, discovering the traces of misery in the poignant glances he sent out the windows, the melancholic half turns, a chaînés without direction. He drank in, soaked up the tell tale tokens till he could instinctively recognize the mood enveloping him, pinpoint the very instant he was thirsty, hungry or frustrated with the group’s sluggish progress, the knowledge becoming ingrained, casual observation an obsession deep-seated, platonic interaction a second nature undenied, Jongin’s joy, ecstasy translating into a warm flutter of butterflies, his heartache rendering Baekhyun frozen with anguish. The phenomenon, disquieting however, he refused to name, categorize, opting for bittersweet ignorance, settling for a voluntary blindness he could keep under control, adjust, weaken its effects, curb the transmission, the escalation, his conquest, holding fast to his autonomy, depriving, divesting himself of a blessing, a boon unfavorable in the entertainment industry, in his country, where diversity is persecuted. He might have brushed off the additional involvement, yet the cursory observation, a hawk-eyed surveillance wasn’t denied, the compulsion to cherish, treasure and enshrine beyond what an earthborn mortal could withstand, choke, squash, the fondness burning Greek fire hovering in a bottomless, eternal ocean, the affection a lighthouse blazing sunshine against the opaque backdrop, a sky drowning in darkness.

Hands tightening on the younger’s slim arms, Joonmyun gave his consent, succinctly mouthing his caution or advice into Jongin’s ears, the boy gingerly melting in his cradle, inclining towards the shorter man, earnestly nodding, walnut tresses bobbing, jouncing due to his eagerness, the keenness to do, a small show of rebellion, an impromptu surprise event or sneaking out at midnight for celebratory snacks. They were whisked away in the next moment, donning brand tracksuits, grungy sleeveless shirts, the heavy percussion of History shaking the set, adrenaline stifling their breath, active reasoning shut down, limbs flying, propelling, pushing, then the six of them running to change their ensemble, snatching blotting sheets, tissues, wiping away the sweat, the smeared eyeliner, gulping down, sipping mineral water. The two team rotated throughout the performance, the introductory concert, albeit Jongin being the busiest, returning every five minute, repeating the maintenance procedure, circling back again, before SM Entertainment’s creative director, Shim Jaewon shouted “Baby Don’t Cry”, the vocalists of M scrambling to the stage, their feathery tenor breezing over the screams, Jongdae’s ending note tinkling beatifically. The chief sound technician announced a break, his people shuffling around to locate an unplugged amplifier, leaving Baekhyun and Kyungsoo on standby, awaiting their cue, both fidgeting apprehensively, intensifying their own anxiety, which escalation was broken by a freshly showered Jongin, poking the taller of them once, beckoning him to a relatively calmer corner, no makeup artist occupying the swivel-chairs. Baekhyun hesitated briefly, ultimately attending Jongin’s request, peering searchingly at the managers, a staff to summon him back to a stiff D.O., in the interim telling his guide “Couldn’t it wait?” and “At least be quick, please,” not caring if he sounded petulant or whiny, the archaic age rank system in his favour, so he could have ditched their dancer, minus the fuss and the inevitable resentment it would evoke. Oblivious to his sullen gripe, Jongin stopped walking at last, facing Baekhyun, the overhead LED bulbs casting a silvery halo encircling the crown of his head, his expression shaded, his stare studious, wistful, also determined, steel flashing when he looked up, coinciding with the hassled “Hurry up”, the succinct “Sorry” cutting off the rant, punctuated by “Have the HR representative told you I’m bisexual?”

Caught unawares, Baekhyun realized he might have gaped unattractively, squeaking out a breathy “Yeah,” that prompted a convinced humph, Jongin plowing on with his speech, “I may or may not be partial to men,” flooring the opposite party, the shock stupefying him, staunching his caustic sentences, the sardonic remarks he had been formulating nasty enough to repel, disgust, revolt. Truth to be told, Baekhyun hadn’t given much consideration regarding sexuality, absorbed in the probable fame, renown, wealth he could earn, dismissing the complex subject, a taboo, affiliating himself with the majority who believed homosexuality was a passing fad, a trend originating from bored, promiscuous Westerner teenagers, unsalvageable in their glorified sodomy, their parents irresponsible adults, unworthy of their children. From the normal standpoint, bisexuality was mere degrees better than being queer or gay, their society treating the self-proclaimed persons salvable since they possessed healthy traits, a natural sexual appetite toward the right gender, their malfunction regrettable, a divine curse, the mark of evil, but nothing terminal, irreparable, unfixable by marrying correctly, their spouse typically tending the problem.

“I have a confession to make,” started Jongin, his back ramrod straight, his lips drooping into a distraught frown, seemingly faltering, the wind taken out of his sails, “It’s not very important,” he continued, “I just want to get this off my chest,” an uneasy cough, “You know,” a sniff, “ahead our debut, the huge changes,” he trailed off, pondering, weighing his words, “So, I, yes, like you,” a tremendous sigh, “A lot. Not in the platonic sense,” needing clarification he added, “More than a friend.” Jongin squirmed timorously, scanning Baekhyun’s reactions, finding none, “You don’t have to acknowledge me, or think over it,” his intonation lilted, betraying the uncertainty hidden poorly, “I hope we can start on a clean slate,” he meekly proceeded, “and become great colleagues,” concluded the boy, humiliation tainting his bronzed complexion copper, silent, anticipating the cruel beratings, mortifying rebukes. Answers, outraged questions helpless, unable to escape him, Baekhyun dwelled in an shellshocked phase, regaining his composure by the time he was returned to his fellow lead, Kyungsoo pinching his side, nudging lukewarm black coffee into his fingers, peering at him, asking “Are you okay?” Baekhyun mumbling “Sure” in response, later floundering up the lit platform, blankly singing What is Love, the green and violet rays blinding his sight, a blushing Kim Jongin vivid, luminous, incandescent on his closed eyelids.

2.

The apartment was basking in the city lights, the electronic commercial billboards painting polychromous stripes on the matt alabaster walls, the living room glowing ivory, the minimalist furnitures, the rectangular sofa, the angular, varnished coffee table, the squared decorative pillows in mint, pea and lemon boldly accentuated, the pastels frosty, wan, a ghastly wash of colour in the otherwise black and white dominated interior. Taeyeon asserted the dreary, near austere design helped her relax, unwind after an exceptionally taxing day, (“I freaking hate variety show shootings,” she exclaimed, flopping onto her king size bed, tumbling, swathed in the fluffy summer blanket, imitating her favourite animation character, Kaonashi from Spirited Away, a classic by Miyazaki,) the barren environment invoking no painful memories, experiences, the nightmares yesterday night’s images, ignored, forgotten. She rang him up early evening, asking if he cared for some Pinot Noir, Chardonnay or Mourvèdre Rosé, a cheese fondue already warming on the stove, roasted chicken, whole potatoes in the oven, via a swanky restaurant located in the posh Gangnam, soft jazz playing in the background, the promise of a peaceful dinner, substantial, intellectually stimulating conversations persuading him to accept the invitation. Three hours ago they chased down the savory delicacies with sublime chocolate mousse cups, the flat screen television displaying gruesome news clips, the screams, the outcries muted, silenced, while they talked, complained about their inhumane schedules, the upcoming projects, personal targets, Taeyeon voicing out her frustrations concerning her delayed solo debut, resentful, despite having recognized the necessity for a group comeback, a show of strength. Inevitably they opted for a drive, wearied from sitting, their legs falling asleep, Baekhyun encouraging her to show off her newest conquest, a Ferrari 488 GTB in glossy royal blue, the conspicuous automobile an indulgent present, ironically her camouflage car, since she was often portrayed as a paragon for a filial, sensible daughter, the public unaccustomed to the national sweetheart flaunting her riches. The new Gran Turismo Berlinetta flew like a dream, sped smoothly, its powerful engine propelling the machine through the highway; an exuberant smile stretched across her face, sometimes glancing at him, the elated sparks in her warm hazel eyes causing him chuckle, her happiness contagious, pearlescent soap bubbles popping in his chest, pleasure a burst of sparklers, the trees outside melting into a single russet streak. Smoke tinted windows ensuring their anonymity, they coasted the buzzing streets of Seoul, deriving mirth from the offended, covetous stares tracking their ride, snidely whispering “chaebol heirs, huh,” but fantasizing about an affluent man, woman magically falling in love with the chosen one, and simultaneously sweeping them off their feet, begging to officialize their forbidden, disapproved relationship. An extravagant vision, which suited drama plotlines wholly, not the gritty reality, where marriage contracts were drawn up regularly, sincere feelings were buried deep, beauty was man-made, affairs, intrigues a common aspect of their banal existence, their perceived freedom a flamboyant glass cage, all open doors latched closed, the glamour cheap plastic glitter, metallic confetti thrown in the air. Quite analogous to the average idol’s career, that started out seductive, entrancing and auspicious, ending in a futile sprint for the leftover occupational options, small or big screen roles, anchor jobs, MC gigs, attempting to realize as much surplus, benefit from their previous vocation as virtually possible, hoarding money for childcare, education - private kindergarten, elementary, middle and high school, then the prestigious university tuition fee - health maintenance, retiring allowance, wedding dower. All sounded extremely far away, though Baekhyun understood how time would gain on him, following concerts, music awards, service in the army, a decade down the road, come Sunday he would be expected to introduce his bride, lead her toward the altar, be a wise, prudent member of their nation, further their prosperity, reputation, bring up sharp and kind children, representing their culture, customs. A far-sighted, levelheaded decision was ought to be established securely, unshakably, his present choices defining, outlining his future, the tomorrow he strived to attain in an constant flux, interconnected to the matter that composed his persona, with the bonds, obligations he represented, spoke for, the ambiguity forcing him to set aside potentially treacherous opportunities, satisfice, settle for less. Troubling himself wasn’t a fruitful effort, a worthwhile endeavour he wished to practice, Taeyeon the only living soul he had befriended who willingly allowed her concerns, doubts to cloud her mind, engulf her thoughts, using, employing the hard facts, the presumptions, hunches, converting them into cunning strategies, entire working game plans, restyling hesitation to her advantage.

Although each SM Entertainment group leader could have applied for a professional strategist position, their approach respectively brilliant, ingenious, Taeyeon was somewhat an anomaly, her mode of operation vastly deviating from the usual methods; she wasn’t genial, amiable or sociable akin to Leeteuk, Victoria and Suho, nor was she earnest, sincere like Onew, her general predisposition an unsweetened cup of strong oolong. People coming into contact with her usually felt ill-at-ease, discomfited, invariably looking over their shoulders, vigilant, watchful to perform their assigned job correctly, her attentive, observant stare compelling, stimulating them for a better execution, the various experts steadily learning how much they could benefit from the circumstances her nature created, her strict, candid feedback  favourable, appreciated. She wasn’t a hard to read woman, feigning satisfaction, contentment when something was lacking, deficient, alternately she was inclined to share her opinion, insight touching on the aspects in question, her judgement often concise and sharp, revealing a new, unconsidered perspective, so Baekhyun had learned to listen when the situation called for his active attention, the diligence, the perseverance to improve. He sensed this night would be momentous, pivotal anyhow, gathering from her contemplative, deliberative expression, her slender fingers dancing on the driving wheel, the repetitive tapping on the accelerator, the sure signs that she was steeping in contemplation, formulating solutions, clarifications for the issue she had chosen to corner today, assumably relevant to him, to their helter skelter relationship. They slumped down on the ivory chaise lounge, situated closely, their legs touching, her wispy blond tresses tickling his jaw, their hands twined together, breathing, exhaling warm puffs into the stillness, the silence encompassing them, Taeyeon quiet, her profile placid, no frowns creasing her forehead, the floral pink gloss on her lips appearing a tangerine orange in the vanilla smelling candle light. She momentarily cleared her throat with faint coughs, preparing for her speech, the serious discussion they would share in a minute, Baekhyun bracing himself, nevertheless fearless, his tranquility unbreached, her proximity grounding him, the lull accompanying their relationship a consistent, unbroken attribute he hoped would last them, even their friendship, if it came to a mutual separation.

“You have fallen for another person, haven’t you?” she delivered her inquiry, straight to the point, the matter of heart, “I noticed, you know,” her statement almost deadpan, stoic, more for his sake, since he sat there speechless, thunderstruck, his countenance cracking, the dust motes molasses trickling, floating indolently, Taeyeon scowling slightly, the feeble grimace contorting her sweet features. “I’m not breaking up with you, idiot,” she tightened her grasp, a weak reassurance, “I have a proposal that may fit us better,” tentative, she lowered her voice to a whisper, her alto feathers tickling his eardrums, cool silk flowing downward his spine, the sensation appeasing his panic; “Go on, please,” he forced out, reclining in the seat, Taeyeon curling up by his side, accommodating to his body on reflex. “I’d like to suggest us a respite from the romantic facet of our relation,” she revealed her proposition, “we should concentrate on the platonic angle, be trustworthy, reliable friends, which we currently lack,” wavering, she pushed on, her gaze troubled, despondent, pleading him to agree, “It’s so tiring right now,” a harsh confession, “Maybe I got old or the industry finally managed to bleed me out,” her eyelashes fluttered rapidly, “I just want to worry less, depend on my closest circle, and have faith in the people surrounding me.” Teardrops gliding across her cheekbones, she sobbed soundlessly, Baekhyun squeezing her frail form, her bones painfully visible through her lightweight shirt, the dove gray cotton a meaningless barrier against her pale skin as he muttered apologies, his atonement over the fabric, his concession a ghost of fleeting warmth, her platinum hair duchesse satin under his palm, gathering his wits for the revelation he was about to make. His chest expanding fully, he started recounting the story of cowardice, hidden agendas, feelings concealed meticulously, the tale regarding a beautiful boy, his bravery, courage inspiring, the dedication he possessed enviable, his devotion infinite, his spark raging fire, an inferno unceasingly growing, his gentleness infinite, kindness ingrained in his nature, his tender personality combined with his intrinsic shyness irresistible, triggering an answering song to the dulcet melody he incorporated. “I see,” Taeyeon said, her sympathy both welcome and ill-favoured, the taste of medicine lingering in Baekhyun’s mouth when he concluded his monologue, guilt, relief warring inside him, his rational mind advising him to bow out, drop his case, his beating, thrumming heart spelling out a single name, insisting on taking, seizing the chance to experience true happiness, a bliss unlikely. “He sounds wonderful,” she threw in, her smile pensive, plaintive, a small, disbelieving laugh erupting from him in reply - she was far from jaded, the daydreaming spirit she retained weary per se, her tenacious essence persisting still, more than sufficient to pull her out of the slump; “Don’t overthink it,” she nudged him, teasing, “Take the steps if it feels right,” a hitch, Taeyeon collecting herself, “I’ll get you in the end, remember,” sounded the unwavering promise, a vow, their pinkies linked together. “Likewise,” Baekhyun swore, sealing their alliance which would provide them shelter, support amidst the challenges, the hurdles, their aid unconditional, the fundament of a future construction, a formation hopefully defying the pressure, the expectations that society, their associates would enforce on them, all the conventions, the shackles constraining them, their island of freedom an untouchable haven - “I’ll be there for you.”

0.

The majority of the old practice rooms were deserted, their scuffed, bared floor shining in patches forgotten, neglected by the company’s artists who preferred the gleaming, distortion free mirrors, the notes sharp, the bass pronounced coming from the newest audio system on the market, though some favoured the nostalgic romanticism the original studios excluded, the memories bestowing the place a venerable quality. Baekhyun leisurely strolled down the main corridor, the taupe carpet fraying, the textile unraveling under his tread, the dappled linoleum peeking through, harkening to pick up on familiar tunes, escaping the poor sound-proofing, the plugging having failed approximately a decade ago, before he popped in, an awkward teenager they had come across on a street, embarrassingly ordinary saved for his voice, a little husky, a countertenor inclining to a mellow tenor. He recalled the inhospitable glares, the confused grimaces, the brusque introductions, wondering about his addition, vengeful rumours circulating why he could have joined a group lined up for debut, the dawns he spent reviewing choreographies, studying the lyrics, begging the sober eyed Chinese trainee to show him the moves he had missed during the sessions, throwing up in the washroom, so the scales wouldn’t reveal the ramyun and chocolate he devoured in secret. His training period was harsh, intense, yet he got away lightly compared to Kim Jongdae, the recruit juggling Chinese lessons, dance classes and vocal coaching seemingly in an endless cycle, his skinny frame shrinking every week, praises raining on him simultaneously, making him the object of open envy, the senior project members, Joonmyun particularly keeping a tight watch on him, waiting for the moment he fallen flat. Fortunately, the boy, later dubbed as Chen, was blessed with a veritably winning and sweet temperament, buttering up their appointed leader in an effortless manner, whose reluctance dwindled gradually, forgetting his prior misgivings, winding up shielding the main vocal; Baekhyun having identified his predilection, was sweating buckets, so he could achieve the buddy-buddy status at worst in Jongdae’s book.

It was pure luck, that Chanyeol took a liking to his scrawny, raucous self, showing him the ropes, what he should avoid, the unwritten rules applying to their bunch, where to stash the candy bars, the instant food packets, the chocolate boxes without anyone discovering the cache; he also introduced him to the moodiest dancer ever, Kim Kai, they called, taunted him, hot blooded, infamously quick tempered, irascible even late afternoon. The first occasion he had needled a snicker out of a comatose, dozy Jongin was the real ice breaker between them, his silly joke, a nonsensical pun which won the trainee’s approval, his icy demeanor thawing, approaching Baekhyun thereafter cordially, observing him searchingly, although the distance, the rift remained, the younger retreating, withdrawing whenever their relation would have gotten intimate. At first Baekhyun put the blame on his senior, officially named Suho, the person treating him with distrust, suspicion, usually seen mumbling into Jongin’s ear, hugging him so much, an outsider would mistake the two as brothers, despite the evident contrast in their skin colour, their physical appearance, height, their dissimilar anatomy; he found out the subsequent year how they had been going way back.

Retracing the past route, Baekhyun paused at a plain oak wood door, a rectangular window installed for monitoring purposes, checking whether he located the right place, the reverberating glass his sign that he had succeeded, a tall silhouette undulating, stretching on the scuffed ground, the graceful figure suspended in a series of spins, ended by an elegant leap, the dancer finishing his performance with a neat curtsy. Clapping might have startled Jongin, thus he stuck his itching, clammy hands in his jeans pockets, shouldering his entry inside, uttering a subdued hello to indicate his unannounced presence, examining the boy’s response beneath his eyelashes, afraid of the instant rejection ought to welcome him, acknowledging the fact, that one day the other would get fed up with him, his baggage, the indecisiveness, and bid him permanent goodbye. “Hey, hyung,” came the surprised greeting, Jongin grabbing the towel off the steel balustrade dividing the mirror, dabbing the perspiration on his temple, gulping down mineral water to cool himself, turning around to face him properly, his cheeks a healthy peach pink from the exertion, his gaze hazy, an evening sky clustered with nimbostratus clouds ensuring a heavy snowfall, its earthy hue a lustrous burgundy brown. “Indulge me a bit?” he pleaded, shy, cautious and skittish, choosing to dare the possibilities, the unpredictable odds, the dancer nodding to his immense relief, vaguely gesturing the elder to take a seat while he relaxed his straining muscles, loosened his leaden limbs, Baekhyun sagging against the ancient, gargantuan amplifier, playing with the abandoned bottle cap, smothering the mental images, the scenarios floating in his head. Wrapping up the exercises, Jongin joined him on the floor, poking him in the ribs, jolting him out of his musing, chuckling, cello chords thrumming gingerly, “So?” the illusory music swelling, Baekhyun breathed through his nose, drawing nonsensical patterns, his pitiful confession in his own language on the boy’s palm, calloused at the joints, the line crisscrossing the surface a wondrous map, a land where he would like to get lost. “Can you stay by my side?” he asked, the details left unspoken, implied, understood, for both was aware of the situation untended, slighted, the bond which tied them together having matured, grown stronger, now undeniable, beautifully crystallized, the fine edges cutting into their flesh, spurring Baekhyun to lean over Jongin, press a chaste kiss on his mouth, plush lips slipping amid his thinner, chapped ones. A tiny gasp hit the back of his teeth the second he ventured to lick into the boy’s mouth, the snug slickness enticing him, pleasure tickling his nerve endings, the whole environment narrowing down, a musky fragrance enfolding him fully, firm thighs bracketing his buttocks, his cradling a slim waist, a tongue brushing his palate, making goosebumps flourish along his vulnerable belly, moans getting swallowed, air meaningless in the haze. Lungs burning, they cut off for a while, recycling heaving breaths, their pants coming out in short puffs, their noses grazing the other’s; “For how long?” stammered Jongin, his hand sure on the apples of Baekhyun’s hip, moving in soothing circles, the vocalist lunging forward instead, scraping his nails on the vertebrae, the younger shuddering under his ministration, shivering when he scratched his shoulderblades, the smooth paves contracting, tendons tightening. Exhilaration filling him all, he deepened the kiss, mapping out the outlines of his mouth, biting, nibbling, tasting his very essence, the leftover grape flavoured sparkling water little starbursts, an entire galaxy disintegrating in the feverish onyx, the dilated pupils black holes in the expanding universe, Baekhyun relinquishing pieces of himself to the gravitational pull, the attraction boundless, tumultuous. The pecks, butterfly caresses surmounted his last defenses, conquering the dread, the tremor, the aftershocks cumulating to an earthquake shaking, crumbling the pillars that upheld him, the poles shifting, true north coming forth to exist, a brand-new, strange order falling into place, he felt afloat, buoyant and anchored, grounded at once, secure in the physical closeness, the affection. Tingles, fire flowing in his veins, crawling to his heart, the thrill of bones igniting, melting should have made Baekhyun run, flee for the exit, but the warmth beckoned him to stay, the tenderness Jongin bestowed upon him a blessing, as the infinitely gentle hand stroking his nape, petting him to meek submission, honeyed surrender, the captivity welcome, the confinement gratifying, contenting, an exact match for luscious freedom.

Cradled in solid arms gilded by the summer sun, he missed nothing, nobody, fulfillment a quality describing, defining his state entirely satiated with the status quo, the unanswered question nearly evading him, if not for the younger’s expectant gaze, their passionate meeting steadily slowing to an unhurried make out session, a continuous affirmation of their mutual sentiment, a devotion vivacious. He looked Jongin straight into the eyes, saw the confirmation there, shining, gleaming, a full moon on the diamond studded dome, changeable, mercurial in its perpetual nature, waning, swelling, still present, within reach, dependable, its ethereal glow drowning out the constellations and Baekhyun basked in the celestial splendor, the silver beacons reflecting off his skin, painting charcoal shadows, creating a sublime balance. He watched the darkness drip from the tip of his fingers, fearless, unflinching, understanding the tremendous intention it served, his spirit at ease, as he placidly processed, took in the scene, the intricate allegory falling apart by layers, the tiers revealing their meaning, adding up to an elaborate picture, each trait significant, suggesting implications obscure, brought to light, uncovering before him. He knew he might never comprehend, believe the reasons why someone generous, gracious like Jongin had found him loveable, chosen him to cherish, treasure, care for despite his many faults, his leery, calculating personality, but he could admit, see that it’s not important whether he was convinced by the hard evidence he could amass or not, he would dive off the highest cliff, bold, reckless, and trust to be caught -

“Until you have to leave.”


End file.
